


Enough

by Lumeriel



Series: Beautiful sinners [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Incest, M/M, Minor Finrod/Curufin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-16
Updated: 2017-11-16
Packaged: 2019-02-03 07:23:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12743700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lumeriel/pseuds/Lumeriel
Summary: "Why cannot you love me? Why cannot I be enough for you? "





	Enough

The eagle brought the news. Finrod already knew. You already knew. Only Celegorm was surprised - for an instant, his exquisite features showing sadness and despair, as if the news brought down another dream ... another pillar of the past. Finrod, as always, turned to console and support others, the best of his masks. You, however, did not speak, you did not let anyone know that you already knew it. Celebrimbor came to you from the forges.  
“Is it true?” he asked with wide eyes of expectation. “Is it true that the king ...?”  
“It is.” You did not let it end, rudely, almost pushing it out. “That very imbecile.”  
Your son looks at you, frowning, pain in his gray eyes - your eyes, the eyes of your father and, therefore, the eyes of the dead king.  
At last you are alone and then you can collapse, bend under the weight of a pain that nobody can know. For a moment you remain immobile, without seeing the surroundings, totally empty. You wonder if he would know, if he knew he would leave you like that, broken, unable to move forward or back, if he knew that in the end you could not ... you could not.  
You explode. You jump to the table and knock down everything ... the world. You throw the chair against the wall. You howl like a wounded wolf. Here! That damn eagle must have brought him here, to your arms, where he belonged. You ought to hold his broken body. You would have fixed him. You would have taken him from Mandos. You ... You fall to your knees, crying at last.  
He did not love you. Not in that way. You were always an extension, a copy, the way to retain something that was lost.  
"Why cannot you love me? Why am I not enough for you? " you demanded once in Hithlum.  
His fingers in your hair, his eyes drowned in sadness and nostalgia, his voice lost in the past.  
"You're enough, Curufinwë. I do love you."  
"I hate you to call me that," you barked with anger and you felt it; but today, now, you only want to hear his voice in your ear, calling you Curufinwë - even knowing that it is not you he is calling, it is not because of you that he is crying for.  
You always knew. Since you were a teenager. Your father said he hated him. Your mother treated him with kind courtesy. Maedhros respected him - even if you suspected it was for his son. You would have loved Fingon if Maedhros had not claimed him for himself since he was a child. You would have loved Aredhel if she had been less like you. But any possibility of loving another died seeing them together.  
Together. Your father kneels on his body, spilling the purple wine in the curve between the shoulders, retreating until the liquid accumulates in the hollow at the end of the back, to then descend and drink the wine with long and slow licks. Together. His face down, his head resting on his forearms, his mouth curved in an ecstatic smile, his hips rising slightly to meet your father's mouth. Together.  
You step back without managing to look away from the image between silk sheets. You see how your father stands up again and forces his brother to turn around to offer him his half-open mouth, to devour it while his hands run possessively over that white, slender body. You do not listen to the words that your father murmurs in his ear, in his skin; but you see his reaction, his shuddering, his response ... and your still infantile body trembles, brutally and painfully. It is hunger, anger, envy. Envy of your father. Your own father, who has what you want. From that moment, you see the truth: you see desire where before you only saw hate; you see hunger where before were despise. You see the hidden caresses. See the passion on the rare occasions they train together for the Games, how always they manage to finish in a duel, touching, joining sweats and gasps. And you burn. It is with these images that you touch yourself for the first time and you know the pleasure.  
You're drunk when you fall on him at the Festival. He augments you like a child, although you burn and are hard of need. You cling to his clothes and entangle a hand in his jeweled hair.  
"You can have me," you offer in a pasty voice.  
"I have you in my arms right now," he jokes, guiding you to an alcove in the palace.  
"Under you", you specify, pulling him to your mouth. "Naked. As you like. You can have me. "  
He looks at you, perplexed and you jump at those open lips. Drunkenness disappears in the taste of his tongue. But it's a second and he already pushes you to bed. For a moment you think you succeeded; but then you notice that the duvet covers you. Like a child.  
"I'm not a child!" You scream. "I love you. I want to sleep with you. I want to be your lover!"  
"Sleep, Atarinkë," he smiles paternally and you grab his hand.  
"Why not? I look like him. I'm the one who looks like him the most. You can pretend while you take me ... call me Curufinwë. I can learn to do things as my father do. Teach me to kiss you as he kisses you, to touch you as he touches you ... You could love me. I can love you more than him. I can…"  
"Ssshh. Silence, "he silences you with his fingers on your lips. "Never repeat that. You are not a copy of your father. You are an independent being and you deserve to be loved by yourself. Sleep. Later you will be better and you will have forgotten this nonsense. "  
But it was not like that. You were not better. You did not forget  
Not even Fëanor's madness threw him into your arms. Not even his madness caused Fëanor to release him. Both clinging to each other until the world tore apart. But death broke those ties at last.  
You cried. You shouted like today. Then he came: his dry eyes with tears without mourn, the light of his love was consumed by the fire that consumed your father's body. Fingon brought back Maedhros; Maedhros renounced the crown ... and you went mad. Not for the throne, no; but because in your mind you had already seen the scene in which he swore allegiance to you and you ... you...  
"I will not kneel before you," you barked, angry, in the privacy of the cabinet.  
He smiled, knowing it was just an attempt to shake off the yoke of desire, of craving. On your knees, taking him in your mouth, giving thanks in your head, your heart singing ... your heart breaking when he moans your name calling another. He never sees you cry. You suspect he knows. In the end, one night, you scream. You scream that you cannot continue like this, that you want more, that you deserve more.  
"I'm not a copy of my father!"  
You love your father; but when it comes to him, he's just a rival ... and you hate him. Like now you hate him for dying.  
“Fool!” You roar and you refuse to admit that is Finrod who supports you, preventing you from hitting yourself again against the floor tiles. - Why was not I enough?  
Your cousin hugs you. Like you, he longs for a lost heat and you know that he will never be able to occupy that place; but you claim his mouth. Sometimes, Finrod smiles as he did in Valinor. Something of that Vanyarin taste slips to your blood.  
“I was never enough, " you murmur later with your eyes on the ceiling.  
“None of us was it” declares the king of Nargothrond, and you understand.  
Finrod did not replace Finarfin. The children did not replace Anairë. You did not manage to fill your father's emptiness. However, it hurts. It hurts so much that you sob like a child:  
“Do you think he thought of me in the end?”  
“You knew, right?”, Finrod replies, stroking your hair with tenderness.  
It is an answer, a comfort. But it still hurts. It hurts to know that he preferred to follow the other Curufinwë to death rather than stay with you in life.


End file.
